At half past five a car drove up outside, and Studer woke up. He put his coat on, crept down to the front door and slid the bolt back. He saw three people get out of the car, then it drove off. They made their way to the steps slowly, the one in the middle leaning heavily on the other two.
“Morning, Hans,” said Studer softly.
“Salut.” Münch smiled.
“Come along. You can have a lie down on my bed. And don’t talk too much. You can tell us your story after lunch. I don’t think they know yet over there. Yesterday Hungerlott invited me to lunch.”
“You watch out, Studer,” Münch mumbled. He had difficulty in speaking. “You don’t realize what a risk you’re taking. They’re devious . . . Have you still got the letter and the will?”
They were back in Studer’s room. Münch lay down. At eight Studer sent Ludwig to fetch some breakfast. “You bring it up yourself,” he ordered.
Until eleven o’clock the three of them held a council of war. Then, once Studer had revealed everything he knew, he stood up. Cars were driving past outside. The visitors to the poorhouse were beginning to arrive.
“You’re coming with me, Ludwig,” the sergeant commanded. The two of them set off. They went into the poorhouse – the hall was empty. Studer pushed open the door to the inmates’ refectory. The tables were all occupied, the inmates had freshly washed blue overalls, there was the smell of a meaty broth. The bowls were full to the brim, and everyone had half a loaf of bread. The inmates were eating.
Studer asked to be taken to the warden. This time the warder accompanied them, but he did not pull the bell. He bent down, low and obsequiously, until he was level with the doorknob, listened at the keyhole, then knocked softly. Inside a conversation stopped. The door was flung open, and Vinzenz Hungerlott exclaimed delightedly, “Ah! The sergeant.”
Studer must come in, he went on, he would meet some old friends. Only then did the warden notice Ludwig Farny, and he pulled a face as if he had tooth-ache. That man had not been invited, he said, did he have to come?
“Yes,” said Studer curtly.
Hungerlott pretended he hadn’t noticed Studer’s impoliteness. His gesture of invitation could have been directed at both of them – or only the sergeant. Studer sneaked a look at his companion. Strange, the lad had not blushed.
The two of then went in, along a corridor. A maid opened a door into a room where the air was blue with cigar smoke. There were liqueur glasses everywhere.
“Elsi! Two more glasses,” Herr Hungerlott ordered.
The introductions did not take long. Most of the men there knew Studer – he had once been an inspector with the Bern City Police. Two clerks from the Poor Board – both puffed up with pride when they were addressed as “Herr Sekretär” – an elderly man from the Society for the Welfare of Released Prisoners who was hard of hearing, members of parliament in cutaway coats. And there was another man there, sitting somewhat apart from the others: the chief superintendent, Studer’s boss. He had a pale complexion and a long, grey moustache. “Aha, Studer.” The well-dressed gentleman nodded and waved his skinny hand. “Well then? Have you discovered anything?”
“I think we should wait until after lunch,” Studer whispered.
“All right, if you think so – but don’t make a fool of yourself.”
Studer shook his head. “Not today,” he whispered, “definitely not today. I won’t be able to explain everything, but I’ve invited two other people, a man and a woman. They’ll come after lunch.”
Studer looked across at Hungerlott. The warden was engrossed in a conversation with one of the junior doctors. Arnold Äbi was sitting next to him, not looking particularly out of place.
“What’s that cop doing here?” one of the clerks bellowed. Studer blinked and said that the deputy governor from Roggwil had called him in, and since the matter had been sorted out, he’d accepted an invitation to a good lunch. His last words were drowned out in a gale of laughter – one of the members of parliament had told a joke. Someone else started to tell one . . . more laughter . . . Hungerlott filled the glasses . . . toasts were drunk . . . the blue smoke got thicker.
Studer stood by the window, looking out over the countryside and wondering why the whole gathering seemed unreal to him: the clinking of glasses, the aperitifs, the laughter at the jokes, the aroma of the expensive cigars, the cigarettes. Out of the window the sergeant could see the graveyard on the right with its memorials of red and white stone, its black wooden crosses – and its fresh graves. Immediately in front of him was the Sun Inn and on the left, about four hundred yards away stood – broad, massive and white, only the roof had black tiles – the horticultural college. The ground-floor windows were open, framing young heads whose eyes were presumably fixed on the glass cube of the hothouse, where one of them had died the previous evening.
Studer felt troubled, but not by the view of the two locales he had finished with, nor by the sight of all the fruit trees, which, correctly pruned according to the Pfründisberg method, looked slightly deformed. No, what he found depressing, eerie even, was what was going on behind his back. A murderer, perhaps even two were putting on a show of innocence to win the last round. Had they trumps up their sleeves? Were they going to try something on? Did they think they were safe because of what they’d done the previous day to try to silence the most dangerous witness, Münch, the lawyer? And what was the threat to him, the detective who was on the spot, whose character reference was poor and friends few and far between?
Behind him a voice said, “They take themselves far too seriously, the cops. Far too seriously.”
“Just what I think,” said another voice in a thick Swiss accent. The sergeant thought he recognized the voice. He turned his head a little and squinted out of the corner of his eye. Of course! Arnold Äbi had to have his say. He was sitting by the stove in his dark, well-brushed Sunday suit, nodding from time to time, saying the odd word to agree with what someone else had said; in short, he was being careful not to draw attention to himself, he didn’t even dare cross his legs.
As Studer was glancing round the room, another face caught his eye. Ludwig Farny was sitting, silent, in one corner. He had his right leg crossed over his left, and his hands clasped round his knees. His cheap suit had also been brushed clean – Huldi had probably helped him there. His fixed expression looked almost arrogant and his eyes, which had that striking blue gleam, were fastened on his stepfather. There was contempt in them and pride. And did Ludwig Farny not have good reason to be proud? Had he not discovered from the policemen’s discussions that he would inherit James Farny’s fortune along with his mother? That the two men who had tormented him – one while he was a little boy, the other later on – would not only end up empty-handed, they would end up in a cell, on thin soup and chicory coffee?
He raised his eyes, fixed them on the massive figure of the sergeant, then higher . . . The two men nodded imperceptibly as another burst of laughter rang out. None of the others present had noticed the mute agreement between the two.
Vinzenz Hungerlott was wearing a black frock coat and a clip-on cravat; his tiepin had an artificial pearl, which gleamed briefly when his beard jutted out horizontally. A knock at the door, the warden raised his hands for silence: “Lunch is served, gentlemen.” They made their way in good order, thin, transparent ribbons rising up to the ceiling from many of the ashtrays. They went along a corridor with red stoneware tiles (gleaming from the application of floor polish) until the maid opened a door: “If you would be so good . . .”
The long table was covered with a damask cloth; at every setting a variety of crystal glasses twinkled. (Studer recalled the glasses that had appeared in The Sun one July evening: relics, presumably, of the time when the inn had been part of a spa.) When the guests were seated, the girl started ladling out soup on the sideboard, filling one plate at a time and bringing it to the table. Now there was a clatter of spoons on the china soup-plates and the sound of slurping. “An exquisite soup!” – “Excellent!” – “He can afford a good cook.” Hungerlott nodded his thanks and stroked his goatee.
At the bottom of the table, where the unimportant guests are usually seated, were Studer and Ludwig Farny. The sergeant marvelled at the dainty way Ludwig handled his spoon. And he didn’t slurp his soup – higher up the table things were much noisier.